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“If you’ve hurt her, bruised her exquisite skin even a fraction, I will cut your fucking hands off,” I rumble, blind rage boiling up at the mere thought of Isla being hurt. Gripping his coat lapel, I drag him away from her and towards my office.
“Isla, please go about your day as if this never happened. We will talk later, okay?”
She gives me a ferocious sneer but turns on her heel and marches off to the kitchen. Sadly staring after her, I’m guessing it’s beans on toast for dinner tonight, and it would be my own fucking fault for being the arsehole who brought this shit into her life.
31
SEBASTIAN
When morning comes around, my eyes are gritty when I force them open. Glancing at the clock on the burner phone, I grunt in surprise. It’s late. Somehow, I slept for hours, but I don’t feel like it. I feel like shit, but I get up, needing to find Dante.
As I leave the hotel fifteen minutes later, I look around at the picture-perfect town covered in snow and breathe in the freezing cold air. Seeing the castle up on the hill, it’s kind of hard to miss, I grin wickedly. That has to be where the Don is and where Dante will be scoping it out.
The chill of the morning air feels sharp against my skin as I move with purpose through the streets of Hemsway. The small town is already bustling, but my focus narrows on the imposing structure ahead. The castle, an ancient behemoth of stone, sits on top of the hill like a silent sentinel—its secrets hidden behind thick walls that have weathered centuries. If you think about it, it’s the perfect place for someone to hide out.
Keeping to the shadows, my footsteps are silent against the cobblestone. My mind races with strategies, playing out countless scenarios. Dante is cunning, a veritable ghost when he wants to be, but he’s not dealing with an amateur. I have to be smarter, faster. The Don of Solitaire is no less dangerous, surrounded by power, hisempire, ensconced in his fortress.
Out of sight, I slip out of the town centre and retrieve a compact pair of binoculars from my backpack. I scan the castle’s exterior, noting the security cameras that pepper the ancient stone like technological warts on a regal face.
No guards.
Curious.
This piques my interest enough to move ahead and find out why.
Dante and I were kindred spirits in many ways, a long time ago, but that’s where our similarities end. He’s the scalpel to my preferred sledgehammer, although certain activities require more precision than blunt force. Today, though, finesse has to win out. I need to be a ghost.
Putting the binoculars away, I pull out the burner phone to check the time. I’ve got to make tracks if I expect to head up there on foot. I know anything coming by the main road will be spotted immediately and shut down.
The plan forms in my mind, clear and sharp. I’ll skirt the perimeter and find a gap, but at the end of the day, this is probably going to come down to firepower through the front gates.
Approaching the edge of town, I avoid the main path that leads up to the castle, opting instead for a more circuitous route through the thickening woods that flank the hillside. The trees provide cover, their bare branches a stark contrast against the winter sky. I move with care; every sense heightened, every shadow a potential threat, my boots crunching on the fallen snow.
Eventually, the castle gatehouse looms ahead, a stone guardian to the secrets and sins nestled within the castle walls. As I edge closer, concealed by the gnarled embrace of an ancient oak, I notice the guards are milling about in disarray. They’re tense, weapons drawn, communications crackling with urgency. A surge of adrenaline courses through me as I realise Dante has been here. He’s stirred the hornet’s nest, and now they’re on high alert.
I draw back into the shadow of the tree, crouching down and consider my options. There are three guards—two by the gatehouse, the third pacing in front of the vast electric gates. I need to get past them, and brute force is going to be my only option. They aren’t prepared for an attack, I can see that in their scattered movements.
I reach into my jacket, fingers grazing the cold metal of the gun.
With careful aim, I fire it, the silencer making a softpinginto the afternoon air. I hit my pacing target in the shoulder. Painful, but he’ll live. The two remaining guards react as expected, turning toward their fallen colleague in a synchronised flurry of confusion.
This is my window.
I slip out from my hiding spot, keeping low, moving with a silence borne from years of practice. The ground is firm underfoot, the snow crunching softly with each step.
I’m almost to the gates when the two guards see me and spring into action, their training kicking in despite the surprise. They’re reaching for their weapons, but they’re not quick enough. Gun levelled, with two simple shots to the vests, I take them both down through the gaps in the iron.
As they go down, I close the distance in a few long strides and leap up on the enormous gates, scaling them effortlessly and efficiently. Flinging my body athletically over the top, missing the vicious spikes, I jump down and land with a crouch, gun levelled.
Groaning and writhing as they try to breathe through the pain of being thumped by a bullet in their Kevlar, the guards can’t get to me as I straighten up.
But I got cocky. I didn’t bank on there being more guards in the gatehouse, apparently recovering from Dante’s attack. Spinning, my fist connects with his temple before he can utter a sound, and he drops like a sack of stones. He is injured and should be tucked away in bed, resting and healing up. Another one manages to draw his weapon, but he’s still fumbling with the safety when I kick it from his grasp. It skitters away across the icy ground, far out of reach.
There’s a split second where we lock eyes, a silent understanding passing between us. He knows he’s outmatched, but there’s a stubborn set to his jaw, an unwillingness to go down without a fight. It’s admirable but futile.
I feint left, and he bites, moving to block an attack that never comes. My right hand, still clutching my gun, swings in a tight arc, connecting with the side of his head. As he falls, I catch him, lowering him to the ground as gently as I can. There’s no need for unnecessary roughness; he’s just doing his job, the same as I am.
With the guards down, I allow myself a moment to breathe. My heart is thumping hard against my rib cage, a rhythmic pounding that matches the throbbing in my knuckles. Pain flares, but it’s distant, secondary to the rush of success. I’ve made it past the first hurdle, but I’m not naïve enough to think it’ll be the last.
